Remedies
by dust on the wind
Summary: When that last symptom refuses to go away, it seems like everyone has a home remedy to offer. Guaranteed to work. Except when it doesn't...
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. Nor do I endorse any of the suggestions found in this story. Mostly because I'm not game to test them._

* * *

For once, every man in Barracks 2 was in his bunk, asleep. Nobody was out meeting escapees from other prisoner of war camps; nobody was engaged in any radical modification of the local infrastructure. Even Kinch was there, deep in some pleasantly distant dream in which neither tunnels nor radio transmissions had any part.

Three a.m., the quietest time of the night. Hardly a sound broke the stillness: the slow pacing footsteps of the night guard outside; a far, faint drone of aircraft; an occasional grunt or murmur from Carter, a muffled snore or two from Newkirk, a cough from LeBeau. Then another cough. And a third.

"Oh, for pity's sake, LeBeau," grumbled Newkirk. "Not again."

LeBeau had got rid of his cold days ago; he wasn't one to linger over an illness. The mustard plaster on the chest, the unwashed sock around the neck, copious amounts of onion soup, all had done their work. But the cough remained behind, a persistent, niggling tickle which was driving him half insane, and everyone else with him.

"You know, this is getting ridiculous." Kinch rolled out of his bunk and went to fetch some water. "You should have been over that by now."

"_Oui, je sais_," wheezed LeBeau, between outbreaks, "_mais ce n'est..._" He broke off as the irritation overwhelmed him once more.

Colonel Hogan emerged from his quarters. "Not LeBeau, again?"

"It's as good as an alarm clock, Colonel," replied Kinch dryly. "A really annoying alarm clock."

"Yeah, and it goes off every forty minutes," said Hogan. "Okay, LeBeau, I know you're not doing it on purpose. Kinch, put some vinegar in that."

"Vinegar?" Kinch stopped in his tracks, the cup in his hand.

"Yeah. My grandmother used to take vinegar in hot water for a cough. It can't hurt, can it?"

Kinch shrugged. "LeBeau, you got any vinegar?"

LeBeau was temporarily bereft of speech, but he waved vaguely in the direction of the locker where he kept his culinary supplies.

"You've got eleven kinds of vinegar?" muttered Kinch, rummaging through the contents of the locker.

"Couldn't get any others. There's a war on," LeBeau choked out.

Kinch grabbed a bottle at random and added a good splash to the cup. "Okay, LeBeau. Bottoms up."

LeBeau took a hesitant sip. "Not the elderflower, Kinch," he protested huskily. "That's for the _cornichons_." He drank a little more, and took a couple of cautious breaths.

"Is it working?" asked Newkirk, watching with interest.

"I think so," replied LeBeau.

"See? Grandma's always right," said Hogan complacently.

Almost immediately, LeBeau was seized by another paroxysm, and Kinch was wearing the rest of Grandma's remedy. "Damn it, Louis!" he protested.

"Okay, maybe Grandma's wrong, sometimes," admitted Hogan, returning to his quarters.

Carter slept right through it, and was the only man in Barracks 2 who woke bright and well-rested.

"You know, LeBeau," he said, gazing at the invalid, "I know something that always works...no, better not. You won't like it."

LeBeau, red-eyed and breathless from the latest attack, glowered at him, but didn't speak.

"Oh, come on, Carter, don't stop there," murmured Newkirk. "Tell us about this miracle cure. I'm willing for LeBeau to try anything."

"You would be," croaked LeBeau irritably, setting himself off again.

Carter shook his head. "Just forget it. He really won't like it."

"Ginger tea," said Kinch suddenly. He had been deep in thought. "There was an old lady lived down the street when I was a boy. She swore by it. Louis, you got any ginger?"

Unwilling to speak again, LeBeau shook his head, then held up one finger, apparently thinking of something. Then he pointed, not towards his locker, but out of the window.

"You got it buried somewhere, LeBeau?" asked Newkirk. LeBeau rolled his eyes, shook his head and pointed again.

"You want us to go to Hammelburg and get some?" said Carter.

"You're growing your own supply in the woods?" was Kinch's suggestion. LeBeau threw his hands up in despair.

"The sergeants' mess." Hogan had come out of his quarters in time for this. LeBeau clapped his hands and pointed at the colonel.

"_Lebkuchen_," he whispered.

"That's right." Newkirk's bewildered expression cleared. "Remember? Those little ginger cakes the cook made for Christmas. Schultz smuggled some out for us. I broke a tooth on one."

"Oh, yeah. They were real...interesting," said Kinch. "I don't think they turned out the way they were supposed to. We could have used them as anti-tank missiles."

Carter chuckled. "I nearly put some into the package we blew up the Adolf Hitler Bridge with, only I thought they might survive the blast and maybe do some damage to birds flying overhead."

"You sure it works, Kinch? Okay, after roll-call, Newkirk, get over to the sergeants' mess and see if they had any ginger left over," said Hogan.

As he so often did, Kommandant Klink took the opportunity presented by morning roll-call to bring his prisoners up to date regarding "the war, of which you are no longer a part." The subdued mutterings and sniggers among the ranks did not deter him at all.

"I am pleased to inform you," he went on, "that the war in Italy is going well."

"Yeah, I heard that, too," observed Carter brightly. "My cousin sent me a postcard of the Colosseum when he got to Rome. Boy, our bombers must have really hit that hard. It's a wreck."

"Thank you for your contribution to the discussion, Carter," said Klink, regarding him with disfavour. "However, I can assure you our valiant Italian allies have successfully beaten off…what is wrong with this man?"

The interruption to his discourse had, of course, been provided by LeBeau, whose efforts to suppress the renewed irritation in his throat had just come to the predictable spluttering conclusion.

The Kommandant came a little closer, peering at LeBeau. "Hogan, you did not tell me you had a sick man in the barracks."

"He's almost better, sir," said Hogan. "All he needs is a few days recuperation. Preferably somewhere with a better climate. I hear the Riviera's nice."

LeBeau, still beyond speaking, made a vigourous gesture of agreement.

"Blackpool, Colonel," suggested Newkirk. "Lovely at this time of year, so I'm told."

"So you're told? Haven't you been there?"

"Wouldn't go near the place," replied Newkirk. "Knew this bird from there once. She had six toes on her left foot. Put me right off, it did."

Klink was still staring at LeBeau. "What is he taking for it?"

"Uh… we're consulting on that, Kommandant," replied Hogan.

"Have you tried chicken soup? Isn't that what you usually do, when one of your men is sick?"

"Well, yes, but at the moment there's a problem with that. The sick man is the cook."

"Ah, I see," said Klink meditatively. He continued his scrutiny of LeBeau, who was making a valiant attempt to control his natural reflexes. Finally, the Kommandant came to a decision. "Get some soup made up by the cook in the mess hall. And see that he takes it. I want him well by next week. I'm having a dinner party. Dismissed."

"I will not eat soup from the mess hall," muttered LeBeau, once they were back in the barracks. "The cook uses bouillon cubes. It's an outrage. Barbarian!"

"Don't worry, LeBeau. This'll work," said Kinch, putting a pan of water on the stove. "I hope."

Newkirk had sloped off immediately after assembly. He returned a few minutes later, having effected entry to the sergeants' mess by means into which his mates knew better than to enquire.

"Here we go, Kinch." He handed over a small, rather grubby tin, labelled _Ingwer_ in ornate lettering which suggested it dated from the turn of the century.

Kinch looked doubtful. "I don't think old Mrs Trimble used powdered ginger."

"Well, it's all you're getting. And it wasn't easy finding it," added Newkirk. "It's the same stuff, isn't it? Just chuck it in there."

"I'm just not sure how much to use," murmured Kinch.

"If I was you, I'd put in the lot," said Newkirk. "More's better, right? There can't be much more than a tablespoon full."

Kinch shrugged, and tipped the contents of the tin into a mug before pouring in the boiling water. Both he and Newkirk drew back from the aroma which arose; not unpleasant, but extremely strong. Then Newkirk laughed. "Well, that'll clear his sinuses, if it does nothing else."

It did more than that. There was a moment of expectant silence as LeBeau took the first mouthful, followed by his spontaneous explosive rejection thereof. And after that, once his vision cleared and he recovered the power of speech, he proceeded to a fluently expressed and extremely detailed dissertation on Kinch's ancestry, character and prospects for future rehabilitation, which was interrupted only when the cough returned, apparently reinforced by the latest attempt at rectification.

"Could have told you that wouldn't work," observed Carter smugly.

"Well, you're not exactly helping, Andrew," Newkirk pointed out. "Any chance you might have something useful to contribute? What about this never-fail cure of yours?"

Carter shook his head. "He really won't like it." But he gave LeBeau a long, thoughtful look.


	2. Chapter 2

Early in the afternoon, Schultz paid a call on Barracks 2. "How is LeBeau?" he asked in a loud whisper.

"Bloody noisy," replied Newkirk. LeBeau had just come to the end of another bout. The invalid glared at him, but wasn't game to risk speaking.

Schultz looked around cautiously before he went on. "We had boiled cabbage in the sergeants' mess last night," he said.

"You have my sympathy, Schultz." Newkirk leaned back against his bunk. "But what's it got to do with us?"

With a slightly embarrassed air, Schultz produced a bottle from his pocket. "I got the cook to save some of the cooking water. It's very good for curing a cough."

"So says your granny, I suppose."

"No, my aunt Hildegard. She drank cabbage water every day, and she never had any chest trouble. And she lived to be ninety-seven."

"After ninety-seven years of cabbage water, she was probably glad to go," observed Kinch.

Hogan considered the suggestion. He was getting worried; the cough was wearing LeBeau out. "Well, it can't hurt. LeBeau, you better give it a try," he said.

LeBeau took the bottle from Schultz's hand, and smelled the contents cautiously. His expression modified from apprehension to aversion. "How many hours did they boil it for?" he croaked.

"How many hours are they supposed to boil it for?" asked Schultz, genuinely puzzled.

"Come on, LeBeau," added Newkirk. "Down the hatch."

LeBeau took a deep breath, closed his eyes, screwed up his nose and downed the contents of the bottle. A hush descended on the barracks, as everyone waited for the reaction.

"You know, that's not so bad," said LeBeau. He sounded surprised.

"You shouldn't have drunk it all at once," said Schultz reprovingly. "Now you won't have anything for when the cough comes back."

He shook his head, and went slowly out of the barracks, almost colliding with Carter in the doorway. A bit of mutual dodging ensued, as each of them tried to get round the other. Then, inevitably, Carter gave way to Schultz's larger bulk.

"And just where have you been for the last hour, Carter?" demanded Newkirk. "Thought you just went to see a man about..."

"That was ages ago," said Carter. "I've been talking to Wilson. Hey, how's LeBeau doing?"

"Seems better. Well, he did." Kinch amended the statement, as LeBeau broke out again.

"Well, I got something that'll fix it for sure. I'm not going to tell you what's in it. But it never fails. Colonel, can I borrow your office?"

He was in there for some time. Newkirk, curious, followed him, only to emerge shaking with laughter and refusing to speak.

Presently Carter came back out, armed with a tin mug and a preoccupied manner. "Now, you have to get it down really quickly," he warned, "so you don't taste it. Just toss it right down."

LeBeau contemplated the latest remedy with deep suspicion, as Carter hovered anxiously. Then the patient braced himself, and swallowed the dose in one gulp.

It was bad, all right. It took him ten seconds to start breathing again, and when he did, it was with a low, shuddering moan of pure disgust.

"Well, I warned you, you wouldn't like it," remarked Carter.

"Carter, what the hell was in that?" demanded Hogan, as LeBeau continued to utter the most extraordinary sounds.

"Nothing really bad - Newkirk, stop laughing, it's not funny - just some garlic, and honey, and black pepper, and mustard, and a little bit of horseradish. That's all." Then, at the look he received from Hogan, he added, "Well, there was some castor oil as well. I got that from Wilson. See, the oil helps to..."

"Carter!" hissed LeBeau, who had finally returned to a state of coherence. "Are you trying to poison me?"

"Oh, come on, it's not that bad. Well, okay, maybe it is that bad," admitted Carter, as he thought about it. "Quit it, guys."

Newkirk was by now almost convulsed with mirth, and Kinch wasn't far behind him.

"You could have at least used Dijon mustard," LeBeau added furiously.

"Well, I had to use what I could get. What's the difference, anyhow?"

LeBeau fixed him with a glare that promised vengeance would not be long delayed. "Americans! You're worse than the English."

"Okay, fine," said Carter petulantly. "But it worked, didn't it?"

LeBeau, brought up short, was obliged to admit that, yes, it appeared to have worked; and he retired to his bunk to catch up on some of the sleep he'd missed out on during the last few nights.

Half an hour later, he stirred uneasily, and sat up.

"You okay, Louis?" said Kinch, regarding him with concern. He had good reason; LeBeau had gone very pale, and there was a shine of perspiration on his brow.

"I think so," he murmured uncertainly, descending from the bunk. "_Un peu malade, c'est tout._"

"Boy, LeBeau, you look awful," said Carter. "Do you feel sick?"

"No, not sick…I…Oh,_ merde_." And LeBeau made a hasty exit, and was not seen again for some time. The dose of castor oil, on top of the cabbage water, had produced an unwelcome, but inevitable, side effect.

After that, Hogan laid down the law: "No more home remedies. I don't think LeBeau can take it."

And when it became clear Carter's preparation had been no more successful than any of the others, the colonel looked very serious indeed.

"If he's no better tomorrow, I'll speak to Klink about getting him to a doctor," he said to Kinch. "In the meantime, he better sleep in my quarters tonight, so he doesn't disturb the others. We'll be late back, anyway, so I'll take his bunk. Tell Newkirk to keep an eye on him."

He and Carter left camp just after lights out, and Kinch descended to the radio room. Newkirk had been absent from the barracks for fifteen minutes or so; he returned just as LeBeau retired to Hogan's quarters, and went after him.

"Feeling better, old son?" he asked.

LeBeau's only reply was a sullen, red-eyed glower. Newkirk wasn't at all discouraged. "Well, we can fix that." He closed the door, and from inside his jacket produced a couple of bottles. "Just been in Klink's quarters. _Schnapps_ - the good stuff, of course. You just take it with hot water, and you'll be right as rain."

"Newkirk, are you crazy? What happens when he misses it?"

"He'll never know, old son. We'll just top the bottles up with some of that rotgut they've been making in Barracks 9, and put them back, and he'll be none the wiser."

He crept out into the barracks, and returned with a mug of hot water, to which he added a good splash of liquor. A second mug received liquor only. "I don't need any hot water," he explained. "That's the medicinal part. Cheers."

"You know, I'm starting to feel better," said LeBeau, after the third dose. "I think this might be working."

"See? You just have to trust your old pal Peter." Newkirk was mellowing; he'd kept pace with the patient. "Another one, just to be on the safe side?"

"_Oui_. But never mind the hot water this time."

Hogan and Carter returned a couple of hours later. "Any news?" the colonel asked, as they reached the radio room.

"Nothing happening, Colonel," replied Kinch. "I'm just about to hit the sack."

"How's LeBeau?"

"Don't know. I haven't been up top all night."

All was quiet in the barracks when they ascended. LeBeau's bunk was empty, as expected, but Hogan had not anticipated Newkirk's absence. He turned an enquiring gaze on Kinch, who spread his hands.

"He didn't say anything to me," he whispered.

"Maybe he's in with LeBeau. You don't think he's worse, do you?" Carter sounded worried.

Before Hogan could reply, a faint sound was heard from within his quarters; it sounded like laughter, but was too stifled for them to tell who it was. Hogan strode to the door and opened it.

"Uh-oh. We're in trouble." Newkirk's voice was unsteady, and his consonants even more wayward than usual.

"No. _You're_ in trouble." LeBeau could hardly speak for giggling. "I'm still convales...convalally...voncal...I'm still sick," he wound up, as the longer word eluded him. "You were right," he added. "That was the good stuff." That remark appeared to please him; he started singing it, and Newkirk joined it.

"And just what is going on here?" demanded Hogan.

"Shhhhh!" Newkirk held a finger to his lips, then beckoned shakily. He looked around, then leaned forward in a confidential manner, to his own immediate peril.

"Between you and me, I think LeBeau might have over-medicated," he whispered in Hogan's ear. "But don't tell the colonel."

"I won't," replied Hogan grimly.

Came the morning, and LeBeau's cough had apparently been laid to rest at last. The hangover, however, showed signs of laying him up for the entire day. Newkirk was in no better shape.

"If that was the good stuff, the bad stuff must be lethal," remarked Kinch. "Do you think they'll make it to roll-call?"

"They'd better," said Hogan, regarding the sufferers with displeasure.

Silence fell across the barracks at the tone of his voice. Carter was the first to break it.

"You know, guys," he said, "I know a really good hangover cure..."


End file.
